Monday morning
by Jubella
Summary: Quinn's thoughts on Monday morning.


Quinn watched her ceiling in a slumber. The light reflecting from her window casted ghostly shadows on the walls, the blind reflecting making it seem cage-like. Just like it felt on her head.

The noises downstairs from her parents' morning activities as a background of a place she was but didn't feel like belonging were on her ears, muffled. Like everything.

She sneaked one hand under her tank top, were both of them were resting. If she slide it acoss her stomach, she could feel it. That roundness that threatened her, awake and asleep. Her slip-up.

She closed her eyes as the noise of footsteps –from her father- climbed down the stairs. The muffled sound of his deep vioce calling at her mother. Farther away.

She felt that much aware of herself in the mornings. When the sounds of routine filled her ears, making her feel hopeless. She didn't know why. But she guessed it was something like a normalcy from her family, a stereotype she was supposed to live up to that she always knew she couldn't. No matter how much she fought against it. Even less now, with the feel of the swell in her stomach.

As always, her mind wondered to thoughts of another kind of life. She pressed the right side of her face against her pillow to look at her book shelves. She often dreamed about putting her favourite books in a carton box. Her dresses into a duffel bag in the middle of the night. She would quietly climb down the stairs while her parents slept and leave the house under the moonlight. It didn't matter what happened after that. Sometimes, she saw herself walking slowly, carelessly down the street. Sometimes, a car was waiting for her, a brunette smiling at her from the drivers' seat.

Her mother called her from downstairs. She knew that, as soon as she moved, she would have to throw up. There was a feel at the pit of her stomach when she remembered she had to go to school today. School was terrifying. She almost shivered at the thought of first period.

Monday's first period was the worst. Normally, she would have a few hours within the school walls to prepare herself from the sight of Rachel. When that happened, her back wouldn't hurt from it's straight shoulders anymore; she wouldn't be aware of the arrogance present in her face anymore and the purse of her lips at the sight of something 'displeacing'. When that happened, her mask would be ready.

But not on Monday. On these days, she doesn't have the time to prepare herself. That mask she has to put on everyday isn't ready yet. She's very much aware of her nervousness and she doesn't have the strenght enough to hide it. Her eyes will drift to legs and waist and breast and lips, and her mind will fill with prayers.

After that, Finn will be waiting outside her classroom on her command. She will press herself against him and kiss his lips in reassurance. Pretending. Replacing.

Her heart beast faster and her face is hot. She knows that, if she looked at herself in the mirror now, she'd look like practice had run late with Coach Sylvester.

Her hand moves to cup at the nearly-there bump. The failed attempt at fixing herself. It's God's punishment, she knows. She feels the back of her shirt sticking to her skin from the sweat and she feels full of Sin. She's thinking about another girl and there's dampness between her legs and an unborn child conceived out of marriage on her belly.

From downstairs, she hears chairs moving and she can barely distinguish her father's voice from her mother's humming, probably in the kitchen.

Time is slipping away, right infront of her. As her stomach grows bigger, her seconds in this house grows lesser. She doesn't know how to feel.

She loves her parents, at least she thinks she does. It's what she's supposed to feel, right? They're her family. She thinks it's funny not to be sure. There's a lot of hiding and pretending, in this house. She's learnt to carry that on into her life. She pretends. At home, at school, in her own head. She pretends so much she's not even sure what's real, sometimes. She prays, everyday, to understand herself.

Her legs move slowly to the side of her bed, feet hitting the floor. There's vomit coming up to her throat from her stomach but she fights it down. Her right hand tugs down at the end of her tank top. Now that she's out of bed, she has to hide.

She mindlessly walks to her closet and grabs the perch holding her uniform, protected by the laundry's bag. She takes it out of it, the smell of fresh clothes finding its way to her nose. It's a familiar smell, but it's not reassuring. If anything, it's oppresive. But it protects her. From failing, from mindless idiots. From herself.

It used to gave her a future. Now, it's just a reminder of the little time she has left before things fall apart.

She hears her mother coming up the stairs just as she claps her bra on. She wonders what it would feel like, to be a mother. But not like her own. If she was to keep this baby, she would do things differently. She wouldn't drink a glass of scotch when she sees her baby sad, instead of asking. She wouldn't put her husband first before her baby. She wonders if she'll love her husband. She wonders what it would feel like to love a man.

It surely would feel _right._ Not at all like the way she feels when she looks at Rachel. If she loved a man, it would be easy. There wouldn't be guilt involved. Nor self disgust. If she could love a man, God could love _her_, too.

The side-zipper of the top of her uniform is down and she grabs a brush to pull her hair up into a ponytail. It feels tight against her scalp and she wishes she could hold her life as firmly as she can hold her hair. She plugs the curler in and heads to the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she comes back, the curler is hot and she twirls it at the end of her ponytail. Her life is not as manageable as her hair, either.

Her dad greets her at the end of the stairs, as he goes to the first floor to find his briefcase. She stops at the kitchen doorframe to say goodbye to her mother, who doesn't turn around but waves at her. It's enough for Quinn to leave.

She rolls her shoulders back countless times as she drives to school. Her jaw clenches as she parks and gets out, grabbing her books from the passenger seat before closing the doors and locking.

She feels slightly more confidant as students move to let her walk to her locker. She thinks that, if the scene were in slow motion, it would all be out of a movie or tv series. She tries to distract herself with thoughts of what it would be like if her life were just a show, like Truman's. Her life is boring, because every and most conflict goes on inside her mind. No one would watch it.

Oddly enough, its nearly distracting from what's coming. And in reality, it doesn't help. Because, for a moment, she forgets that today's Monday as she walks into the classroom. There's nobody there, and its soothing to be alone for a little while longer. She doesn't want to face it. To face her. It's too late to start putting on the mask. If its not on fully when she sees her, it would crumble down. There's no time.

Her heart beats hard on her chest and her attempts on keeping her eyes on her lap fail every fifteen seconds to look up to the door. To see her enter the classroom. There's a few people coming before her, but when she does, Quinn cannot avert her gaze. There's legs, and hips, and waist, and breast, neck and lips. Her hand goes down to her barely-there bump. Quinn prays.

She can't help but to watch her, as she stands up to adress at the teacher. Words itself don't really register on Quinn's mind. There's a hand to the hip she can't ignore and a patch of skin when Rachel removes her hair from her neck. She swallows thick. Rachel's lips seem to glisten when she speaks. They move and slide against eachother, and Quinn can feel the very tips of her ears hot. Her left hand is gripping at the side of her chair, right hand sprawled conciously across her stomach.

Rachel's rant ends and there are a few sighs, even from the teacher. Quinn wants to feel annoyed, she really wants to. But it's not at the brunette her irritation is directed at. It's towards herself. For not being good enough, for letting sin wash over her shamelessly. For not being strong enough to stop it. She's not worthy to God if she can't resist temptation. Any kind, not wanted, forbidden desired thing.

The bell is a salvation for her weekly personal hell. She's one of the firsts out the door, and as always, Finn is waiting for her. Under her command. There's relief washing through her. Not because the sight of her boyfriend is calming, but because she's doing the right thing, when she kisses him. It doesn't feel like it in her body, even in her heart. But she's almost sure of it in her mind. It's the right thing.

Rachel passes them on the hallway as their lips touch. And Quinn, as always, can't help but to look at the brunette. As always, they lock eyes. Rachel parts her lips slightly and bites her bottom lip. As always, Quinn closes her eyes. Pretending. Replacing.


End file.
